pouring rainy night like this, coming after a hard day’s grind, would squelch any
one but a Mark Tapley. You know it IS worthwhile to live.”
“Oh, I suppose so. But I can’t prove it to myself just now.”
“Just think of all the great and noble souls who have lived and worked in the
world,” said Anne dreamily. “Isn’t it worthwhile to come after them and inherit
what they won and taught? Isn’t it worthwhile to think we can share their
inspiration? And then, all the great souls that will come in the future? Isn’t it
worthwhile to work a little and prepare the way for them—make just one step in
their path easier?”
“Oh, my mind agrees with you, Anne. But my soul remains doleful and
uninspired. I’m always grubby and dingy on rainy nights.”
“Some nights I like the rain—I like to lie in bed and hear it pattering on the
roof and drifting through the pines.”
“I like it when it stays on the roof,” said Stella. “It doesn’t always. I spent a
gruesome night in an old country farmhouse last summer. The roof leaked and
the rain came pattering down on my bed. There was no poetry in THAT. I had to
get up in the ‘mirk midnight’ and chivy round to pull the bedstead out of the drip
—and it was one of those solid, old-fashioned beds that weigh a ton—more or
less. And then that drip-drop, drip-drop kept up all night until my nerves just
went to pieces. You’ve no idea what an eerie noise a great drop of rain falling
with a mushy thud on a bare floor makes in the night. It sounds like ghostly
footsteps and all that sort of thing. What are you laughing over, Anne?”
“These stories. As Phil would say they are killing—in more senses than one,
for everybody died in them. What dazzlingly lovely heroines we had—and how
we dressed them!
“Silks—satins—velvets—jewels—laces—they never wore anything else.
Here is one of Jane Andrews’ stories depicting her heroine as sleeping in a
beautiful white satin nightdress trimmed with seed pearls.”
“Go on,” said Stella. “I begin to feel that life is worth living as long as there’s
a laugh in it.”
“Here’s one I wrote. My heroine is disporting herself at a ball ‘glittering from
head to foot with large diamonds of the first water.’ But what booted beauty or
rich attire? ‘The paths of glory lead but to the grave.’ They must either be
murdered or die of a broken heart. There was no escape for them.”
“Let me read some of your stories.”
“Well, here’s my masterpiece. Note its cheerful title—‘My Graves.’ I shed